The Silent Crusade
by Siegrain
Summary: Where Marianne ends, Crow begins.


**AN: **I know it's cheesy, but I fell in love with the Silent Crusade story line, although I believe it had so much more potential and so much more space for character development. Come back, Crow! D:

Anyway, I was inspired to write a fic about it, because who doesn't love a tsundere boy-who-has-emotional-stability-issues-and-constantly-tells-you-he-hates-you-even-though-he-actually-loves-you QQ

Oh yeah, and Starling too.

A one-shot looking back on Crow's past.

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><p><strong>Silent Crusade<strong>

**Prologue**

One drop falls. And then another. Before she can even register the change in weather, the quiet drizzle becomes a fierce downpour, battering against the folds of her robe and drenching her entirely. The sky is a sickeningly dark sable, and the trees loom menacingly overhead, their branches outstretched like greedy, grappling arms.

She shivers once as the water trickles down her skin, and instinctively clutches the bundle in her arms closer, wanting to keep it dry and warm.

She quickens her pace through the forest and desperately searches through the darkness, finding nothing, yet still hoping for something—_anything_. She stumbles several times after getting her foot caught in the undergrowth, but refuses to loosen her hold on the bundle in her hand.

It's all she has left, and it's the one thing absolutely _has_ to save.

She coughs; the pouring rain isn't doing any good for her health, and she knows that there's only a matter of time before she'll be unable to move. A soft wail escapes from within the bundle and she knows that he's complaining to her about the cold; about her stumbling; about _everything_. She can't help but feel sorry for him, and it pains her to know that she can't stay with him or watch him grow into a young adult like she'd always hoped.

She repeatedly whispers soothing words to him, rocking him back and forth gently in her arms. The comforting motion quickly puts him to sleep, and she sighs, relieved that he won't have to hear any of the tormenting cries or begging she would be forced to make.

It seems like an eternity before she sees the soft, yellow light in the distance, and she instantly recognizes the small, cozy building. The light illuminates the grey, ailing walls of the house, as well as the rounded orange roof that shines under the streams of running water. In reality, the water falls to the ground with barely a sound, but to her ears it sounds akin to roaring tides and the crash of a waterfall.

She strongly resists the urge to cover her ears, instead calming herself by clutching the bundle in her arms against her chest. A small croon is the only response she yields, and she smiles at the familiar sound, realizing that it will most likely be the last thing she hears from him.

The squelch of mud and leaves is painfully loud as she rushes up to the door of the house, striding up the slippery steps. She nearly falls, but grips the wooden railing with all her might, not wanting to hurt the little child relying on her protection.

She can vaguely register the sting of splinters in her palms, but chooses to ignore it; she'll be gone soon anyway, so it doesn't make much of a difference. She raps on the door five times. _Loudly_. A figure walks up to the window, cigarette in hand, and pulls back a sheet of linen curtains, peering at her through the glass as if wondering what sort of crazy being would wander alone through these torrents of rain.

The man instantly recognizes her, and nearly yanks the door off its hinges to get it open. He stares down at her, and at that moment she realizes how much of a mess she must look. She subconsciously tucks a lock of her disheveled hair behind her ear and offers him a sheepish—yet apologetic—smile. What else can she do?

He seems skeptical of her, but ushers her inside anyway, asking if she needs a cup of tea or something to calm her down because to him, she looks like hell. If it were under any other circumstance, he would have joked and said that she looked more like Ergoth than a human.

But this wasn't any other circumstance.

The woman shakes her head and shuffles the bundle beneath her cloak, intending to keep it hidden. She doesn't know how to approach the subject, even though she's gone through it in her head nearly a million times. She's diligently recited the lines over and over, almost as if preparing for a play. Yet, when the moment came, it was nerve-wracking. How could she have the gall to ask such an impossibly un-repayable favor from her friend?

He sees that she's hesitating and how out of character she's acting, and bluntly asks what's bothering her. She looks up at him nervously, and it's then that he notices how sunken her eyes are—those blue eyes that once shone with the gleam of sapphires were now dull and flat. He grips her shoulders and shakes her gently, demanding to know what exactly this is all about and why she's here.

She shuts her eyes as if trying to deter away from the question; she still hasn't worked up the nerve to ask him. And then everything is black; she can't see a single thing, and she knows she can't procrastinate any longer.

She glares up at him with fierce, blue orbs, and hastily shoves the bundle into his unwilling hands. He's bewildered by this, and gives her a questioning glance as he hesitantly pulls back the rugged, black blanket wrapped around the small form.

Once he sees the face of the sleeping child, he widens his eyes and shakes his head. She refuses to take him back when he holds him out to her, and begs him to listen to her situation, crying that he's the only one left and that child is the only thing she has.

He continues to motion his disapproval, tightening his grip on the little boy as she explains her final request to him in a hurried rush of breath. Her voice dwindles as she notes the hardened look in his eyes; he's not going to listen to her. In fact, he's absolutely horrified at her request.

He yells accusations at her, asking if everything she'd told him before was a lie, and if she'd known what kind of child she was _really_ carrying. She nods solemnly in confirmation, unable to lie to his face any longer.

She yells back at him angrily, saying that even though it was that man's child there was no way that she could have harmed him; he'd hardly lived, and he'd done nothing wrong. The child wasn't its father, and he deserved a chance to experience life for himself.

It doesn't come as that much of a surprise to her when he refuses her explanation, but it nearly tears her heart apart thinking about the fate of her child.

That's when she knows that she's grabbing onto the thinnest threads of the spindle, and she grovels at his feet, kneeling and pleading for him to look after the boy. The man looks at her blankly, his face slowly contorting into an expression of rage. He screams at her, demanding that she get a hold of herself and realize how pitiful and weak she's being.

But she doesn't care. She's going to die, and this is the last thing she must take responsibility for.

To her shock, he pulls her up from the floor by the hood of her robe; he's practically quivering with rage, and she can see how hard he's working to hold himself back. He shoves the bundle back into her hands, inciting a confused wail from the child wrapped in the blanket.

She's his friend, but she's also a sinful woman, and there's no way he can take care of that man's spawn. He's absolutely disgusted that she'd ask him such a thing.

Once he's gotten her outside, he quickly slams the door shut, refusing to let her back in even through her torturous protests. The baby wails even louder, his cries echoing through the rain-filled sky. She slumps to the ground and hopelessly attempts to calm him, hugging him closer and pacing back and forth.

What she's about to do is risky, but if she keeps him with her he won't even have a chance of living. And she needs to keep him _alive_. Her lungs feel as though they're about to burst, and she coughs up droplets of blood onto the man's doorstep, staining them with red spots for however many years were to come.

Her legs begin to shake and she falls to the ground, landing on her side to prevent harming the boy. She feels the bones in her ribs cracking, but she doesn't care; by this point she's already gone. She shakily plants a warm kiss on the child's forehead, and leaves him by the doorstep, her heart tearing with every step she takes away from him.

With tears streaming down her face, she continues to limp away into a mess of dark trees, exhaustedly collapsing into a pool of mud and water. It is there where her final, ragged breath is made, and where her eyes become unmoving and lifeless.

And then all is still.

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><p>It's a sunny day, unlike that painstakingly rainy night. The memory was still crystal clear, although only a week had passed since those events had occurred. He wasn't surprised to find the little bundle on his doorstep that night; she'd always had that determined, stubborn personality.<p>

Much to his surprise, he'd miss it.

He shoveled the last clump of dirt onto her grave; it wasn't grand, but it was the best he could manage at the time. The small mound protruded from the dirt forlornly, seemingly out of place inside the entanglement of tall, leafy trees, whose trunks outstretched endlessly to the vast expanse of blue sky. He chiseled away the finer details on her gravestone, putting down the years of her life, the name she'd had, and a famous quote which would always stay with him.

He stood up and bowed his head, strands of his long, dirty-blonde hair falling across his face as he did. He blew the strands out of his eyes and furrowed his brow; it was about time he'd gotten a new haircut, anyway.

He smiled. She'd always tease him about how much his long hair made him seem feminine and, being the conniving woman she was, she'd set up desperate men to meet him in order to prove her point, laughing hysterically whenever they'd deem him a "trap" and turn tail in fright.

He pulled out a plain packet of cigarettes and rummaged through his pockets for his lighter, but froze when he heard the baby crooning by the tree behind him. He turned around to look at the little boy—he had a layer of messy black hair on his head, despite his young age. He also had his mother's searing blue eyes, which were looking up at him curiously from the ground.

He smiled at the baby and held up the packet. "Hey there, squirt! You want one?" he asked jokingly, shaking the box at him. The baby stuck out its tongue at him stubbornly and turned away.

He smirked. "Yeah, you're right. They are gross. **Ew!**" He dramatically dropped the cigarettes onto the ground and placed his foot over them, causing the baby to laugh cheerfully. "Oh, so you like that, but you make faces at me, you brat?"

The child clapped clumsily and nodded, his squeals of delight almost as shrill as the calls of a crow. The man blinked. Black hair, black blanket, a crow's call…

"Crow?"

The boy paused to look at him. He repeated the name again, testing it out, and laughed when the boy resumed his innocent clapping. Did he like it?

"Crow it is, then!"

He paid his final respects to his comrade-in-arms, recalling all the countless memories they'd had together and wondering why she of all people had to go.

He could almost hear her chatting animatedly with other members of their group, recounting her tall tales of slaying powerful monsters and how she'd so easily conned members of the Black Wings.

"_With only a wink!" _she'd exclaimed, flashing a sly smile_._

"_Woah, really? That's so cool!" _a younger, gullible Sodane had exclaimed.

He could vividly remember how she'd always taken to stealing his clothing from the bathhouse, parading around half-naked with his hat on and teasing him, asking where his clothes went because he couldn't find them _anywhere_.

She knew damn well where they went, that wench.

He placed his hat onto the freshly turned soil, smiling fondly at the memory; it wasn't much, but it was the least he could do after sending her off so terribly. He knelt to the same level as the gravestone stared at the inscription with soft, grey eyes.

"Trust me on this," he said in a hushed tone, placing his hands on the smooth edges of the speckled stone. "I'll be the best damn father Crow's ever had, so quit turning in your grave and rest easy there. Alright, Marianne?"

From beyond the gravestone, he could almost hear her instantly familiar reply; almost see her face become cherry-red as she'd shout at him:

_"I… I hate you, Wence!"_

Wence smiled. "Yeah, I know."

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>I thrive on constructive criticism, and I know I have plenty of room to improve my writing skills, so please give me your honest opinion c:

Oh yes, and this is more of a flashback kind of scene, so that's why it's written in this kind of tense. I was just trying out this style to see how it works, and it's surprisingly fun.

Thank you for reading!


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